


Mightier Than The Sword

by AwkwardAnnie



Series: Errata and Addenda [4]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Fluff, Love, M/M, Romance Novel, Writing, bad erotica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnnie/pseuds/AwkwardAnnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein some late-night work uncovers a store of interesting novels, Raffles issues a challenge, I take it rather too seriously and the whole thing runs wildly out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mightier Than The Sword

I have done some remarkably silly things in my life. Many of them I now shudder to recall, mostly because they usually resulted in Raffles or myself coming rather too close for comfort to a long stay with Her Majesty's finest. Some of them, however, were merely excruciatingly embarrassing, and while I still do not like to dwell on them, at least they become entertaining in the retelling. The tale that follows is primarily of the latter sort, and one on which I have been quite happy to sit for many years now; it is only at the insistence of my dearest and with the knowledge that it is now unlikely to result in any further embarrassment or scandal that I reveal it here for the first time.

It began in a house in Twickenham, some time before Raffles and I had admitted our mutual affection as I have previously chronicled under the dramatic if perhaps overzealous title of _Full Disclosure_. At the time I was unfortunately already well aware that I was hopelessly enamoured of my dashing friend and still labouring under the misguided impression that he did not harbour anything approaching a mutual regard for me. I had resigned myself to a lifetime pining after that which I could never have and had reached a grim sort of tranquillity about the matter. After all, I told myself, he had not yet grown so bored of me as to send me away completely, so I could still treasure every moment I spent with him despite the ache in my heart.

So it came to pass that I should be dogging Raffles' footsteps through the dark passageways of the impressive building whose occupants were currently taking in the air of the Swiss Alps. We were, I was told, in search of a tiara worn by the lady of the house in her much younger days which Raffles was convinced was still in the house. I had asked several times where he had gained this information and what exactly he planned to do with such a gaudy trophy and received the vague non-answers that I was by now used to being offered when my friend did not wish me to know something.

"Here we are, Bunny." Raffles had reached the door at the end of the passage. "Oh, look, the silly woman's left it unlocked." The door swung open easily and we entered into a richly decorated bedroom hung with tapestries and silks. The moonlight slanted in through the wide windows, casting across the floor great shadows of the bay trees on the lawn. There was a neatly organised dressing-table to one side whose locked drawers suggested jewels. Raffles, however, ignored it entirely and went straight to the side of the bed. Turning up the edge of the coverlet, he reached under and pulled out a drawer from under the bed frame while I hovered with the lantern. Inside were a number of wooden boxes of varying sizes. Two of them had large and obvious locks.

"Left or right?" Raffles asked sportingly, and I picked the box on the right which was both larger and more finely decorated than the other.  A few minutes' work with a pair of long thin picks and the lock sprang open. Raffles opened the lid of the box and I brought the lantern's beam to bear on our quarry. To our surprise we found books. The box was filled with them, stacked with their spines upmost. Some were still in their paper covers, while others were only raw cloth and gold lettering, but they all looked fresh and new.

"Why the dickens would she bother to lock up books?" I wondered aloud.

"I believe I can guess," said Raffles slyly, and he selected a volume and opened it at the frontispiece. "Ah, yes, I thought as much." And he passed the book to me without any further explanation.

" _'Forbidden Fruits'_ , I read. "'A thrilling romance by A. Lady.' They're romance novels? That's hardly worth an inch of mahogany."

"Rather more than mere romance, I would venture, my poor innocent rabbit," said Raffles with a laugh. Baffled, I opened mine at a random page and read a few lines. Then I shut it extremely quickly.

"Good God."

"Oh, find a good bit, did you?" asked my friend casually, now flicking through a much larger book. "Dear me, the lady is more adventurous than I would have guessed; I must congratulate her."

I opened mine again, rather more gingerly this time, and read a little more. "Heavens above. Raffles, this is flat-out pornography!"

My friend turned his attention to the other wooden box. Out came the lock picks once more. "I believe the authors prefer the term 'exotic literature'."

"I dare say they do!"

"You may scoff, but I hear there's good money in it. Now, there's a thought! You're a literary sort, perhaps this could be your calling!"

"Oh, _really_ , AJ!"

"Never say never, that's my motto.  Ah, there we go." He had popped the lock of the other box and now drew out a sparkling tiara set with a large topaz. The lamplight danced in the facets of the diamonds and spiralled down into the depths of the gemstone. "Would you look at that?" he breathed.

"Beautiful," I murmured, though to this day I am unsure if I was referring to the tiara or to Raffles' enraptured expression as he held it in his hands, for my friend never failed to appreciate artistry. He gazed at the thing for a few seconds longer then snapped out of his trance.

"And now we must be off. Hmm." He glanced from the tiara to the boxes and back again. "I seem to require a spare pair of hands. Come here, old chap." I held out my hand to take the delicate circlet from him but instead he reached past my open palm and placed it squarely on my head. "Suits you," he laughed and set about tidying up the mess we had made while I scowled at him from under a crown of diamonds. "Are you going to keep that?"

I looked down at the filthy book still in my hand. "I should think not!" I said, though I couldn't deny that there was something tantalising about the vile thing. I handed it back to Raffles and cast my gaze over to the other side of the room. "Are you going to have a go through the dresser?"

"Would you like me to?" Raffles asked, and when I glanced back he had slid the drawer back under the bed and was sat on one knee with his hands folded on top of the other and his chin resting on his knuckles, looking at me with mischief in his eyes.

"It seems a shame not to," I admitted. I did not add that I took a certain perverse pleasure in watching him at work with his lock picks, although that fact undoubtedly contributed to my encouraging him.

"My dear Bunny, I declare you have become a regular crook!" he laughed gleefully and sprang to his feet, pulling me up with him. I watched entranced as his nimble fingers opened drawer after drawer of the dresser, rifling through hairpins and ribbons to find the occasional jewelled bracelet or pearl earring. He loaded his pockets with the precious items and we left the way we had come, leaving no trace of our presence save the gaps in the lady's jewellery collection.

Some time later I bid Raffles a reluctant goodnight at the steps of the Albany and returned to my Mount Street flat alone. The hours after we parted company following a theft were always fraught; being deprived of Raffles' presence, his charm and his irresistible personality that somehow never failed to convince me to accompany him on his devious outings, left the way open for guilt and moral anguish to set in and it was with a nagging sense of shame that I hung up my overcoat by the door. I cast about my person for my cigarette case to settle my nerves and, finding nothing, tried the pockets of my coat. To my astonishment my questing fingers found not metal but cloth and paper. I pulled out the unexpected object.

 _Forbidden Fruits_ by A. Lady.

Raffles! The cunning devil must have slipped it into my coat pocket when I wasn't looking. I should have noticed it earlier but it would not surprise the reader to learn that my wits are not at their sharpest when I am in the company of my friend. I decided not to mention the book to Raffles; if he asked about it later I could pretend that it must have fallen out of my pocket on the way home, so that I never even discovered it. I would certainly not give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. I left the book on the desk and readied myself for bed.

The 3 o'clock bells found me still awake with the expected guilt already gnawing at my conscience. Every time I closed my eyes I saw policemen at my door, heard Inspector Mackenzie's voice reading the charges. I tossed and turned and found no escape until I abandoned all attempt at sleep and lay glaring daggers at the ceiling, cursing God, the devil, Scotland Yard, Mackenzie and most especially Raffles. As I languished in exhausted wakefulness, a thought occurred. I had often enjoyed reading before bedtime and found the practice to be quite calming and aiding in the pursuit of sleep. It could hardly do any more damage, I reasoned, and so I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my dressing-gown and set out to peruse my bookshelf. I wasn't in the mood for Dickens or Austen, and poetry at 3AM sounded like a very bad idea indeed. Then my eyes alighted on _Forbidden Fruits._ Part of me was still morbidly curious as to its contents. With sleep seeming like a distant dream, I took the thin cloth-bound volume back into my bedroom, lit the candle by my bedside and settled into the covers to read.

It began innocuously enough as we were introduced to the heroine, a young lady named Jemima whose sole aim in life seemed to be to be married and escape her family home with the overbearing father and the kind but distant mother. After a chapter or so of Jemima drifting around her family's supposedly vast mansion feeling sorry for herself, her life was altered forever by the arrival via largely unexplained plot contrivance of Mr Reginald Duncan, a dashing young fellow whose virtues, which were expounded on at length by the anonymous author, consisted primarily of being extremely attractive and exceptionally rich. I was personally of the opinion that he sounded like a frightful oik but Jemima disagreed and indeed fell head over heels for him within the space of half a chapter. Alas, then, that he should be married already! What transpired next was quite possibly the most nonsensical courtship I have ever seen described. It followed a pattern wherein Duncan would flirt outrageously with Jemima, who would respond coyly to his advances and then retire to her chambers to soliloquise on her forbidden love and how she was surely a vile woman for not turning him down immediately she had found out he was married.  Then things took a turn for the exciting. One evening on the way to her chambers (presumably to continue to mope) Jemima was waylaid by her dashing objet d'amour. Precisely what happened is best read first-hand, so I include an excerpt from this book which, despite my better judgement, I have managed to hang on to for the last however-many years.

_'Suddenly, warm arms encircled me and I caught the scent of his eau de cologne. His husky voice whispered my name in my ear._

_"Oh, Reggie!" I gasped, quite overcome. "You must not! They will surely hear!"_

_"Hush, my darling. Your parents sleep soundly and the servants have gone out for the evening. It is only us!" And so saying, he spun me around in his arms and kissed me passionately. When I responded in kind he pushed me back against the wall and pressed closer still. I tangled my fingers in his thick, dark curls as his tongue ransacked my mouth like a Viking horde.'_

Very many years later, with a great deal more experience and a copy of the text open in front of me, I must declare that to be the worst simile for kissing I have ever read (and I have read some dreadful tripe in my time). At the time, however, I didn't notice it at all because at the mention of the odious Duncan's 'thick, dark curls' my treacherous brain had immediately drawn a parallel with Raffles; all at once in my mind it was not the naive Jemima up against that wall but myself, with Raffles pinning me in place, my fingers in his hair and his kisses hot and rough on my mouth, my jaw, my neck. I read on like a man possessed. Duncan pulled Jemima after him down the corridor to her room, just as my friend had led me through the empty house that very evening. He pushed her onto her bed, and at the same time I was acutely aware of the feel of the mattress beneath me, the warmth of the eiderdown and the smell of clean linens. When he knelt over her and began to undress her I couldn't help but imagine Raffles in the same position, his thief's fingers working their magic on the buttons of my shirt—an image which seemed to send all the blood in my body rushing southward with the usual outcome. I managed only a few more sentences, wherein Duncan repeatedly proclaimed his love for Jemima while smothering her body with kisses, all described in vividly erotic detail, before the tension became too much to bear and I could not resist the urge to pull up the hem of my nightshirt and take myself in hand. I did not last long. In the privacy of my own head I felt Raffles' hands on me, tasted whiskey and tobacco on his lips and heard his voice in my ear whispering the same filthy, beautiful things that covered the pages of my book. I came quickly, muffling my groan with my hand, and afterwards fell into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

I awoke late the next morning feeling surprisingly rejuvenated despite the events of the night. Indeed, I even found it in me to whistle a chipper tune as I washed and dressed. I had a little time to spare after breakfast and so decided that I would sit down and read the remainder of _Forbidden Fruits_. It was an interesting experience. In the light of day, the passages that had so aroused me the previous night seemed trite and cliché, and the prose was in fact really quite appalling in places. The plot, which had been weak enough to begin with, became increasingly more ridiculous as Duncan's wife arrived unannounced and Jemima began to devise scheme after absurd scheme to make her loathe her husband and leave him for good; to this day I wonder why it never occurred to her to simply add a dash of cyanide to the poor woman's soup, for it would have both saved a lot of time and prevented several heinous crimes against the common simile. However, before any of Jemima's plans could come to fruition, the wife went out riding one morning, was thrown from her horse and broke her neck, leaving Duncan suddenly free to marry Jemima and live happily ever after. It was sudden, bizarre and deeply unsatisfying, and I was left wondering why anyone would ever think to pay for such nonsense. To the contrary, judging from the list of other titles by the same mysterious author offered in the back pages, it was exceedingly popular nonsense. I confess that as what Raffles so succinctly described as 'a literary sort' myself, I was convinced even I could do better. Then the remainder of Raffles' words from the previous night came back to me. Perhaps I _could_ do better! It could hardly hurt to try, and it seemed like an entertaining way to pass the time between jobs (be they honest or dishonest).

I have never been much of an author; I am a journalist by nature and prefer the concrete cataloguing of the real world to the creation of a new one, but my friend has described me many times over the years as 'resourceful', and I was determined to live up to that. The first step, I reasoned, was to survey the existing literature. This was in itself a challenge and necessitated a degree of background work, as I discovered quickly that many of the more fashionable shops kept such literature 'under the counter' and feigned ignorance if directly questioned. After a while I found that the most efficient way to acquire these so-called ‘exotic’ books was to wander into a second-hand bookshop with a confused expression and the title and author scribbled on a piece of paper; when the shopkeeper offered assistance I merely had to explain that I was looking for a gift for a non-existent sister and had been given the title as a suggestion. They all unfailingly insisted on gift-wrapping the things at no extra cost, which amused me no end.

So I began my strange voyage into the realm of exotic romance. Determined to do the thing properly, I read about six or seven different authors or pseudonyms and kept a notebook wherein I noted recurring themes, popular phrases and common plot devices, and hid books and notebook under the floorboards beneath my bed so that Raffles wouldn't find them and tease me. One point that I noted quite early on (aside from the general inanity of the plots) was that the female protagonists were all, to a woman, astonishingly beautiful. Something about that rankled with me. I am well aware that I am not and never have been by any means the epitome of masculine good looks, especially when compared to Raffles who could in his youth easily pass for a Greek statue and even now with the advance of years never fails to turn heads at parties, mine quite naturally included. I have also in my life met many ladies who, despite not living up to the classical standards of beauty, were nonetheless utterly charming and lovely in their ways. As such, it bothered me that all these stories seemed to imply that a young lady only had a hope of falling in love and having that love reciprocated if she happened to be blessed with a pretty face. I decided then that my protagonist would be a plain-faced girl—not outright ugly, but ordinary, like the ladies who might buy these stories. I filled the pages of my notebook with her personality (intelligent but withdrawn, reserved yet steadfast in her morals), her family (an older sister, already married and living far from home and a much younger brother) and finally her name. That was the hardest of all. There is a great deal tied up in a name, for it is not usually a choice that the bearer of the name makes and an unpleasant name is a curse not easily undone. I was lucky to have been given an ordinary name and then rather less lucky to have been saddled with an unfortunate nickname which has stuck with me my entire life thanks to Raffles, who has never called me Harry in my life save once (the experience being so strange that I immediately begged him never to do so again). I had by this point become rather fond of my nameless character and felt something of a kinship with her, and I hope it won't seem too narcissistic of me when I say that I called her Harriet. At first it was a mere placeholder to be changed later when I thought of something better but it grew to fit her, and her it, until I felt unable to change it.

The love interest was trickier. He should naturally be attractive, whether by his face or his personality, but what would a woman look for in a potential lover? It was not a question I had pondered much until then. In wondering what a woman might want I inevitably came back to what _I_ wanted, and what I wanted more than anything was Raffles. But then, women had often remarked on the attractiveness of my friend, and while initially I had been unmoved by it personally, as my love for him grew I began to agree with them—privately, of course. Why not start there? So, a bright-eyed, curly-headed gentleman with a devious smirk and the grace of a cat, to stand opposite little Harriet with her mousy-brown hair and too-big ears. It will come as no surprise that I named him Arthur. Was I uncomfortable with the name? Never. My friend was always AJ to me and remains so even now, save upon those not infrequent occasions where I call him by his surname because he has done something particularly reprehensible and I wish him to know exactly how cross I am with him.

The stage was set and I had my principal characters. All I had to do now was set them in motion. A meeting was needed, preferably one which introduced a crucial plot device which meant that they could not live happily ever after until it was overcome. And then it hit me. The dashing Arthur was already a thinly-disguised doppelganger of my friend; there would be nothing lost in making the comparison complete. He became a burglar, sneaking into the country house to pilfer necklaces and silver spoons and meeting instead with Harriet, candlestick in hand, who had not shied away from strange noises in the night but instead gone to investigate. A stand-off in the candlelight, neither daring to speak, before he disappeared out the window and left her alone to dream about the stranger she couldn't bring herself to detest. Satisfied with the start of a plot, I began to write. At first it was a struggle to put the words together in an artistic style but after a while the sentences flowed easier. The tale grew in the telling, as they say. I kept the manuscript under the floorboards with the notebook and told Raffles nothing of what I was doing. In that respect, life continued as usual. We went out for dinner, or for a walk, or to the club. I laughed at his jokes and smiled bashfully at his gentle teasing, all the while hoping he would not notice how each casual brush of his hand made me blush like a schoolgirl. After we said our goodnights, I would return to my flat and pick up my pen. In the world of ink and paper, Harriet sought out the mysterious burglar, determined this time to speak to him, for he haunted her thoughts both waking and dreaming. When their paths crossed entirely by coincidence, she confronted him, bold as you please, and demanded of him his name and his calling, like in the old ballads. In many ways I envied her. She was far braver than I could ever be; she saw what she wanted and, though she was shy by nature and had been passed over many times before, she remained determined to try. She asked Arthur all the questions I was too cowardly to ask Raffles: where did he come from? What was his life like before he turned to crime? Why did he steal for a living? And in return, Arthur opened up to her and came to trust her like he'd not trusted anyone before.

But the course of true love never did run smooth, and before long danger reared its ugly head in the shape of the police, hot on Arthur's tale. How far was Harriet prepared to go to protect him from the long arm of the law? The answer, of course, was exactly how far I would go to protect Raffles from the same; that is to say, as far as necessary. To that end I added a midnight flight on horseback from the manor with her arms around his waist as they galloped across the countryside. Later, when they had stopped to rest, fearing all the while for life and liberty, Arthur confessed that he had fallen in love with Harriet, with her loyalty and resourcefulness and her courage in the face of peril. Harriet expressed her own feelings with a kiss which became two kisses, then three... and then a problem arose. Namely, that I found myself categorically unable to write anything even slightly risqué. It was not that I did not know what to write, for barely a night went past when my thoughts did not turn even briefly to all the dreadful, wonderful things I wanted to do to my dear Raffles and to have done to me in return, and my sordid imaginings required only a little editing to apply just as well to my characters' desires. It was not even that I was unsure of how to phrase the sentences, for I had spent some time already studying the relevant passages of my collection of novels—in particular noting my own unconscious responses. It was that despite this I could not bring myself to write the damnable words down. I stared down at the blank paper with a mixture of mortification and frustration. It was ridiculous. I was a grown man. There was no earthly reason why I should be too embarrassed to write down a few vulgar words that nobody was likely to ever see. And yet, there I sat, unable to continue. Something had to be done.

I had an idea. I stacked the leaves of my manuscript to one side and set in front of me a fresh sheet. I picked up my pen, closed my eyes and wrote a word, as fast as possible and with the minimum of thought. Then I opened my eyes and tried not to laugh at the mess I'd made of the four simple letters. Still, it was done. That hadn't been so difficult. Obviously I couldn't write the remainder of the scene with my eyes shut but it was a start. I closed my eyes again and wrote a few more choice words, then again with my eyes open. Then I progressed to phrases, then sentences, until finally I could just about write a full paragraph of suitably filthy prose without blushing or breaking down into undignified giggles. I returned, relieved, to my pair of lovers who must by that point have been about ready to leap from the page and throttle their bumbling author for interrupting at the crucial moment.

From then on it was an easy run. I threw plot point after over-thought plot point at the pair and watched them do battle with and surmount each one. I discovered all manner of interesting things, such as the fact that no matter how erotic the acts one is describing may be, the actual writing of the scene becomes extremely unarousing extremely quickly, especially when one is forced to pause half-way through to think of a euphemism for the male anatomy that one hasn’t used recently. I also began to return to previous chapters and edit them whenever I felt a moment of stagnation. It became a great pleasure to sit each evening at my desk and write, as the turning point of the story approached and the duo still seemed more in love than ever. Even Raffles noticed my continued good mood.

"You've been remarkably cheerful lately, Bunny old chap," he remarked one afternoon at the club, over a glass of brandy. "Haven't got yourself a lady friend, have you?"

"Good lord, no!" I said, startled, and then realised that it had come out a little defensive. I should add that at this point Raffles knew nothing of my ex-fiancée (a subject upon which I may expand later in these accounts, as it is still somewhat painful to me) and I had worked quite hard to keep it that way. "No, it's just... life is going rather well at the moment, don't you think?" After all, I could hardly tell him that the reason I was so chipper was largely because I had spent the previous night editing a scene wherein my unsubtly disguised author avatar had stripped Raffles' equally unsubtle duplicate of his trousers and brought him off using only her tongue.

Raffles merely smiled and shook his head. I think he might have thought me a bit mad. In fairness, he may not have been far wrong. It is one thing to love a man and to conceal that love from him to spare you both from pain and embarrassment; it is quite another to sit down and write a novel wherein the pair of you fall in love, live happily ever after and never have to face the judgement of society, for that was without a doubt what I had done, perhaps unconsciously at first.

For live happily after they did, Harriet and Arthur. After a hard-fought battle and a certain amount of contrived plot Arthur was granted freedom in exchange for assisting in the capture of a gang of professional thieves. He married the ecstatic Harriet, who convinced him to renounce his life of crime forever, and the two of them bought a cottage in Surrey. They even had a child, whose name I pondered for some time. In the end it was never referenced in the final text but I have always called her by the name of the only person besides Raffles I have ever professed to love, so I am afraid that must remain a mystery still.

It was with a surprisingly heavy heart that I took up my pen to write the very last lines that I would ever write concerning the adventures of Arthur and Harriet. In the months since I had begun what was frankly a ridiculous idea in the first place, I had become rather attached to them; I began to understand what authors mean when they say that they share their heads with their characters, and I suspect that I will carry my two star-crossed lovers with me for the rest of my life. Still, the sense of satisfaction as I wrote the words ‘The End’ at the bottom of the last piece of paper and gathered it all into a single pile was almost overwhelming. I even daringly left the manuscript on my desk for a day or so, although when Raffles threatened to drop round one evening for a nightcap it went back under the bed. It lay there for a good two weeks before I wondered about publishing. I had started the whole silly thing largely for a bit of fun, but now that I had finished it against all odds, it almost seemed a shame to let it gather dust under the floor. After a lot of soul-searching, I poured myself a very large brandy indeed and sat down to write a covering letter to the publishers of _Forbidden Fruits_ , enclosing a copy of the first chapter. I sent it by the morning post and forgot all about it for several weeks.

I did not know at the time, but I was about to set off a chain of hilariously bizarre and absurd events, some of which would not come back to haunt me for some time.


End file.
